


Overtime

by TrashCat



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room, Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Attempted Rape, F/M, Multiple Personalities, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashCat/pseuds/TrashCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mystery Room always got awfully quiet when they worked late nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overtime

The Mystery Room always got awfully quiet when they worked late nights. Hardly anyone else was still in the building, except Dustin, doing his rounds and whistling thinly to himself. Lucy wasn’t allowed to whistle—or hum, or turn on the radio. When the Prof worked late nights, it meant he wanted quiet, so much quiet that sometimes it seemed to Lucy that she was alone. Occasionally he’d say something brief, or get up for more tea. But mostly it was just the rustle of turning pages, the whirring of the reconstruction device, and the bustle of the city outside.

            On late nights, it was all about wrapping up work. Blazing through evidence, double-checking facts. He was perfectly capable of doing it all by himself. Lucy sometimes brought a magazine just in case he ended up completely ignoring her and there was nothing for her to do. That was the Prof for you—brilliant, but maybe a bit out of step. It wasn’t all that bad of a setup, really; both of them were just tired and wanted to go home. But the silence was a bit unnerving, especially in the dark. The reconstruction machine gave off its own light and sometimes there was nothing but its eerie blue glow.

            This particular night was completely typical like that. Lucy read about haircuts that flattered your face and this fall’s ‘in’ colors, and glanced at the clock propped up against a stack of newspapers on the floor: 11:43. Time for good girls to go to bed on a weeknight, but with the overtime pay she was getting right now for doing absolutely nothing, she could buy that nice new jacket, or maybe save up for a place of her own away from that roommate and her nasty boyfriend…She flipped another glossy page. All in all, this wasn’t a totally bad deal.

            A siren went by outside, and in the wake of its fading wails, the silence in the Mystery Room seemed even more oppressive. She felt a little trapped, really, by all this clutter in the dark. But everything would be alright as long as they were out of here before one. She didn’t fancy waiting for a cab or bus too late at night. What time did Dustin go home, anyway? He didn’t seem like a bad sort…maybe he’d wait with her at the stop until the bus came.

Or maybe the Prof would. That would be a little nice, really. The Prof was a twig, but his presence was calming: he was so laid-back it seemed he could handle anything. Just his placid heavy-lidded gaze and sleepy smile were enough, even in a heated confrontation, to fill her with confidence.

She settled into reading again, leaning against filing cabinets piled high with debris, and tried to ignore the faint ache in her legs and the uncomfortable silence.

Then, the Prof spoke.

“Lucy…wouldn’t you like to sit down?”

It made her jump a little, and she lowered the magazine. “Aw, nah, Prof, I’m just fine! There’s nowhere to sit here, anyway.”

The light of the reconstruction device only illuminated half his face. He looked tired: his hair had fallen into his face from long hours of staring down at papers and screens, and the locks cast shadows that made his eyes look so sunken. _Poor Prof_ , she thought.

“Now, Lucy. Are you absolutely certain about that?”

No, wait. This wasn’t her Prof.

He shifted a little in his chair, swiveled just a bit to look straight at her. The blue light caught one of his eyes: it was cold, hungry, impatient. A chill came over her when she saw that eye. Instinctively she tried to back away, like she usually did, but her foot hit the back of the cabinet. On all sides she was surrounded by junk.

As long as there’s a criminal, Florence had said, he won’t touch you, but if you’re alone—

“Now, don’t run, Lucy,” the other Prof said, his voice low. “Come here, won’t you? And sit on your teacher’s lap.”

Another shiver shook Lucy. Her back was pressed completely against the filing cabinet now. “Oi, Prof, I can’t go and do that.” He voice was quiet, but in the quiet room it seemed far too loud. She was sure he could hear every time her voice wavered.

She was absolutely sure. A grin spread across his unshaven face, and he opened his posture a little, inviting her. “Don’t be so bashful, now. Don’t think that I can’t pick up on what you really want—I’m a detective, remember?” The reconstruction device flickered just slightly, so that his smile seemed to grow in an instant. “Don’t think I haven’t caught the way you look at that pathetic other me. But he’s not real, Lucy. I’m the one you really want.”

Lucy’s hands unconsciously balled into fists against the filing cabinet. “Prof, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Had she ever looked at the Prof like that? Sure, she had given him the once-over her first day on the job, same as she would do for any fellow who wasn’t too old. But since then, he’d been the Prof. Her teacher. She couldn’t possibly imagine anything starting up between her and her calm, detached, downright oblivious boss.

Her face was heating up and she couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Prof, I—“

“What, Lucy?” he snapped. The harsh tone was so loud and so sudden that she jumped. But his voice was back to the soft, honey-sweet growl it had been in an instant. “I hope you’re not going to protest. I hope you’re not convinced you can argue with me…or run from me.”

Lucy knew it was true. She couldn’t argue with this other Prof, and she didn’t know what he would do to her—he talked about cutting out tongues so much…

“That’s right.” As Lucy took a tentative step forward, he grinned hungrily again. “That’s right, Lucy. I’ve seen how you flirt with him.” She stepped over a mound of books, biting her lip, glancing at the door. “Eyes on me, Lucy. I’ve seen what you wear to this office—what a lovely figure you have. And you’re not afraid to show it off, are you?”

The door was close, but the Prof was closer. And she didn’t fancy her chances of getting the obstructed door open before the Prof lunged at her—

She took the final two steps and stood before the other Prof, who looked at her with glinting eyes.

“Sit in your teacher’s lap, Lucy.”

Slowly, humiliated, she lowered herself down, every hair on her body on end, like they were trying to strain away from him. His thin bony hands grasped her sides, just under her breasts, as he pulled her closer. She felt his nose in her hair, and his hot breath on the back of her neck. Her heart wouldn’t stop beating, fear constricting her lungs. She had never thought of the Prof like this. Not the normal one, and definitely not the potty one, all obsessed with criminals like he was…

The other Prof took a deep, long breath, savoring the smell of her hair. His long arms wrapped around her. “This is comfortable,” he said, barely audible, even just next to her ear. “Isn’t it now, Lucy?”

His whisper made her shiver, even if she didn’t mean to. His chest was pressed against her back, and she knew he had felt it. He shifted a little, a few times in succession, and she fought down the sick thought that he was grinding on her.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “stay quiet. I like my women to be firebrands, but it’s nighttime now. A good time for girls to be quiet.”

His lips traveled down her neck, just grazing it, and his scruffy chin rested on her shoulder. He was taller than her, even like this, so now he was hunched, and she was pressed into the curve of his lanky form. Her legs rested between his.

“You’ll be quiet. Won’t you, Lucy? If you scream…” One spidery hand reached out, and grasped a pair of scissors on the desk. “I’ll cut out your lovely little tongue. And I don’t want to do it, you know…because that tongue is good for so many things…”

Lucy nodded, slowly, as if it was painful. Her eyes stared straight ahead, at the messy Mystery Room, the piles of clutter that had prevented her escape—the piles of clutter the Prof had left.

She didn’t want to resent him. The other Prof’s hand slid down and rested between her thighs, but she didn’t want to resent him. He unbuttoned her jacket with his other hand, exposing her thin shirt, and she tried to fight the sting of bitter, angry tears.

The other Prof’s lips brushed her neck again, then kissed it, over and over again. His hand forced her thighs apart. He spoke again, still kissing between sentences.

“I’m glad for this opportunity, Lucy.” He caressed the insides of her thighs, through her tight jeans, close to where her legs met. “I’ve been wanting this. I’ve been wanting you.” She wished she could close her legs, but the scissors were still on the table, so close. “But that idiot impostor—that disgusting, false other self, using my name—“ She didn’t know what he was talking about. “—is so frigid…Lucy, he’s offensive to women.”

He shifted the way he had before, and Lucy knew how, he _was_ grinding.

“I’ve had nothing in four years. And then you come in…fiery, bouncy, fresh out of school. Naïve and alone with me for hours every day.” Alarms were screaming in her head, she needed to go, she didn’t want to see the Prof like this. “And _he_ does nothing. Not even interested.” The hand that was teasing her relented. It rested again on the scissors. His rough, low voice, so different from the Prof’s, rasped in her ear. “It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

She opened her mouth, to scream or protest, only the barest fear of what he would do forming in her head. His hand covered her mouth. The other plunged the scissors down.

He ripped her jeans open, and his hand darted into them. “White underwear. Plain. Disappointing.” His breath was loud in her ear as he stood up, forcing her against the desk, grabbing her wrists before she could even register that she had been free for a second—her ruined jeans slipped down her thighs, and his cold hand grasped her hip as the first tear slipped down her cheek. The Prof pressed himself against her, and she didn’t want to feel him like that. Not her Prof. Anyone but her Prof.

He stayed there for a long time, breathing in her ear, resting against her. He stayed there for a very long time.

Then he spoke.

“Where…?”

The hand holding Lucy’s wrists loosened and came away. Lucy looked up, and met the sleepy eyes of her own, normal Prof.

Her tears burst out and wouldn’t stop.

“Lucy! Oh, Lucy—“ The same hands that had touched her so savagely before lightly grasped her shoulders, and she swore they were shaking. “Oh God, Lucy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he would—ever—“

“I know you didn’t, Prof,” she sobbed. “I know you didn’t.”

            She knew he couldn’t control it. She could tell he was horrified. She didn’t want to resent him.

But the hot feeling of anger was rising up in her, and she knew it would take a while before she would want to work late nights again.

**Author's Note:**

> I still have some doubts about the ending...in the first draft, I had a big long denouement with Alfendi trying to comfort Lucy and Lucy being shocked and angry and lashing out at him and crying buckets, but in the end I decided I wanted it with the shock still fresh. Or something.


End file.
